magnificent. Randolph Applewhite. I didn’t realize. I didn’t—” Bernstein stopped and looked back at Zedediah. His eyes, Jake thought, looked about to pop out of his head. “Applewhite. Zedediah Applewhite? Of Zedediah Applewhite handcrafted wood furniture?”
Zedediah nodded.
“Good heavens! And Lucille—Archie—”
“It’s quite a clan,” Zedediah said.
“Lucille Applewhite, the poet! This is so amazing. I own both of your chapbooks. And Archie Applewhite—I’ve visited your website. And I saw your Chair with Ottoman in a gallery just last month. It was stunning. So original and inventive.”
“I hope you had the good sense not to try to sit on it,” Archie said.
“Applewhite. Jameson. I had no idea. No one at the Review had any idea.” Bernstein put his hand over his heart and took a deep breath. His cheeks had gone pink. “I apologize for my ignorance. I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea that all the Applewhites were the same family. Or that Sybil Jameson was—”
“An Applewhite as well—by marriage of course,” Zedediah said. “As patriarch of this clan I can’t really take credit for her—or Lucille, for that matter. Except that my sons had the good sense to choose them.”
“I’m an Applewhite!” Destiny said. “My name’s Destiny Applewhite. Destiny is my first name and—”
“But this is too wonderful!” Bernstein said. “An artistic dynasty. Like the painters…ah…um…you know…the Wyeths! Or the writing Brontës. Or the acting Barrymores. Except that you each do such different work.” He turned back to Sybil. “You never gave so much as a hint.”
Sybil was sitting very still. When she spoke, her voice was chilly. “I was under the impression that you were coming to interview me. It didn’t occur to me to mention my family. Any more than it would have occurred to any of them to mention me.”
“Ah!” Bernstein said. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “But I have to tell you it’s exciting to be sitting here at a table in the midst of so much talent. It’s like expecting to find a diamond and stumbling into an entire mine. The children? Do they—”
“The children are still exploring their artistic potentials,” Sybil said. “Destiny shows signs of talent in the visual arts. He has a real eye for color.”
“That’s me, Destiny,” Destiny said. “I gots lots and lots of finger paintings. You want to see my finger paintings?” He got down from the table and went off toward the schoolroom.
Sybil went on. “Hal, whom you haven’t met—”
“Nor are likely to, unless you’re planning to put down roots,” Archie said. “None of us has laid eyeson him for months.”
Sybil frowned at Archie. “Hal is something of an introvert, but I’m sure you understand the sensitive artistic temperament.” Bernstein nodded, his face serious and sympathetic. “He was passionately into painting for a while, but judging from the new sign on his door, the materials he’s been ordering on the Internet, and the sounds coming from his room, he seems to be expanding his range. We all respect his artistic privacy, of course, so we won’t know what he’s working on until he’s ready to show us.”
“ I’m composing and choreographing an original ballet,” Cordelia said. “I also play the music and will dance it. It’s a solo ballet called The Death of Ophelia. From Hamlet, you know.”
“Ah. Ophelia. Unrequited love, madness, drowning! Superb material for a ballet. An opera even.”
“I don’t sing.”
“That’s the Achilles heel of the whole Applewhite clan,” Zedediah said. “If there’s a singing gene, we don’t have it. Applewhites don’t sing.”
“I do!” Destiny had come back in, carrying a large sheet of paper covered with red and green smudges. “I sing all the time.” He put down his finger painting and launched into “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” at the top of his lungs, walking his fingers up an imaginary water-spout.
Zedediah nodded.
“Good heavens! And Lucille—Archie—”
“It’s quite a clan,” Zedediah said.
“Lucille Applewhite, the poet! This is so amazing. I own both of your chapbooks. And Archie Applewhite—I’ve visited your website. And I saw your Chair with Ottoman in a gallery just last month. It was stunning. So original and inventive.”
“I hope you had the good sense not to try to sit on it,” Archie said.
“Applewhite. Jameson. I had no idea. No one at the Review had any idea.” Bernstein put his hand over his heart and took a deep breath. His cheeks had gone pink. “I apologize for my ignorance. I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea that all the Applewhites were the same family. Or that Sybil Jameson was—”
“An Applewhite as well—by marriage of course,” Zedediah said. “As patriarch of this clan I can’t really take credit for her—or Lucille, for that matter. Except that my sons had the good sense to choose them.”
“I’m an Applewhite!” Destiny said. “My name’s Destiny Applewhite. Destiny is my first name and—”
“But this is too wonderful!” Bernstein said. “An artistic dynasty. Like the painters…ah…um…you know…the Wyeths! Or the writing Brontës. Or the acting Barrymores. Except that you each do such different work.” He turned back to Sybil. “You never gave so much as a hint.”
Sybil was sitting very still. When she spoke, her voice was chilly. “I was under the impression that you were coming to interview me. It didn’t occur to me to mention my family. Any more than it would have occurred to any of them to mention me.”
“Ah!” Bernstein said. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “But I have to tell you it’s exciting to be sitting here at a table in the midst of so much talent. It’s like expecting to find a diamond and stumbling into an entire mine. The children? Do they—”
“The children are still exploring their artistic potentials,” Sybil said. “Destiny shows signs of talent in the visual arts. He has a real eye for color.”
“That’s me, Destiny,” Destiny said. “I gots lots and lots of finger paintings. You want to see my finger paintings?” He got down from the table and went off toward the schoolroom.
Sybil went on. “Hal, whom you haven’t met—”
“Nor are likely to, unless you’re planning to put down roots,” Archie said. “None of us has laid eyeson him for months.”
Sybil frowned at Archie. “Hal is something of an introvert, but I’m sure you understand the sensitive artistic temperament.” Bernstein nodded, his face serious and sympathetic. “He was passionately into painting for a while, but judging from the new sign on his door, the materials he’s been ordering on the Internet, and the sounds coming from his room, he seems to be expanding his range. We all respect his artistic privacy, of course, so we won’t know what he’s working on until he’s ready to show us.”
“ I’m composing and choreographing an original ballet,” Cordelia said. “I also play the music and will dance it. It’s a solo ballet called The Death of Ophelia. From Hamlet, you know.”
“Ah. Ophelia. Unrequited love, madness, drowning! Superb material for a ballet. An opera even.”
“I don’t sing.”
“That’s the Achilles heel of the whole Applewhite clan,” Zedediah said. “If there’s a singing gene, we don’t have it. Applewhites don’t sing.”
“I do!” Destiny had come back in, carrying a large sheet of paper covered with red and green smudges. “I sing all the time.” He put down his finger painting and launched into “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” at the top of his lungs, walking his fingers up an imaginary water-spout.
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